Progress (Is a Hope for Fools)
by ardj18
Summary: "I hate you," Bucky snarls. "I know," Steve sighs. Recovery, he reminds himself, takes time. Recovery, he reminds himself, isn't always pretty. Recovery, he reminds himself, is possible. This, he reminds himself, is progress. (warnings for emotional abuse and suicide attempt. This isn't a happy story, guys.)


It starts slowly.

Bucky is reluctant to come with Steve when they finally find him, but he's taken out all the Hydra bases he knows about, and he deems Steve a better option than SHIELD.

For the first week, he refuses to come out of his room. He doesn't respond when Steve knocks. He doesn't respond when Steve talks to the door. He doesn't respond when Steve begs.

Steve decides to leave him alone.

Steve always leaves a plate of food in the fridge, and most days it's gone by morning, so at least Steve knows he's still alive.

On the ninth day, Bucky slips quietly into the kitchen while Steve is eating dinner and sits down at the table. Steve hurriedly fixes another plate and places it in front of him.

Bucky eats quickly, glaring at Steve the whole time, and then slinks away.

This, Steve thinks, is progress.

* * *

For five days, Bucky eats dinner with Steve. He never stays at the table longer than five minutes, and he spends the entire time glaring at Steve, but at least he's there.

He begins wandering around the apartment more often, too. Steve will find him sitting on the balcony or the couch, staring at nothing. But at least he's not holed up in his room.

Whenever Steve enters a room where Bucky is sitting, Bucky turns and glares at him.

Sam says the glaring is a good sign. It means he's remembering what it's like to feel emotions, and it's natural that anger would be at the forefront of his mind.

It's a good sign, Steve reminds himself over and over.

But by the sixth night, Steve can no longer bring himself to meet Bucky's eyes.

This, he reminds himself as he stares resolutely at his plate, is progress.

* * *

Three weeks after arriving at Steve's apartment, Bucky speaks for the first time.

"You're an idiot," he says harshly, and Steve drags his eyes up to meet Bucky's glare for the first time in weeks. Steve smiles broadly, but it falters as Bucky's tone registers.

The words are achingly familiar, part of a loving banter that Steve still knows by heart, but the tone is all wrong. There is no fond amusement in Bucky's voice, just rage and disdain. It's clearly intended as the insult it never was before.

"I'm your idiot," Steve whispers quietly, and is rewarded with a flicker of recognition before the glare intensifies.

Steve resists the urge to sigh and quietly heads to his bedroom to continue reading.

* * *

Bucky begins speaking more. At first it's just a word or two every day, but soon he's saying something to Steve almost every time they're in the same room.

Steve should be delighted. He should. And a part of him is.

Part of him isn't.

"I hate you," Bucky spits one night, in the middle of dinner.

"I could kill you right now," he says flatly while Steve's brushing his teeth.

"You're pathetic," he snarls while Steve's sketching a picture of him.

"You let me fall," he hisses in the middle of a monologue about the various atrocities he'd committed for Hydra.

"You didn't look for me," he reminds while Steve's doing the dishes.

"You're the reason all this happened to me," he accuses when Steve returns from a run.

"You _let me fall_."

"It's _your fault_."

He's talking, Steve thinks to himself as Bucky describes the grisly murders he's committed. That's a good thing.

This, he tries to believe, is progress.

* * *

Every Friday, Sam or Natasha comes to visit, to make sure Bucky hasn't snapped and killed Steve. They're also evaluating Bucky's condition to report back to SHIELD, but everyone tries to ignore that part.

Bucky never talks to them. He shuts himself in his room until they're gone.

"He's not always like this," Steve insists, rubbing his neck sheepishly. "He's gotten better."

"It means he's comfortable around you," Sam replies, smiling encouragingly. "He trusts you."

"Yeah." Steve manages to smile. "That's good."

* * *

"I hate you," Bucky snarls.

"I know," Steve sighs.

Recovery, he reminds himself, takes time.

Recovery, he reminds himself, isn't always pretty.

Recovery, he reminds himself, is possible.

This, he reminds himself, is progress.

* * *

Steve stares at the ceiling, trying to think of a good reason to get out of bed. He can hear Bucky moving around the apartment. He closes his eyes and sighs.

"Hey, Sam. I think I'm gonna need to cancel our run for today. It's a bad day."

"Is everything okay? Bucky's not turned violent or anything, has he?"

"No. It's just—It's a bad day."

* * *

This isn't Bucky, isn't _Steve's _Bucky, and Steve knows that. This isn't the Bucky that starved himself to make sure Steve could eat. This isn't the Bucky that finished all the fights Steve started. This isn't the Bucky that kissed his bruises and promised him forever on a snowy Brooklyn night, huddled in a tiny, run-down apartment.

This isn't Steve's Bucky. But it's the Bucky that Steve caused. Because Steve failed him. Steve _let him fall_.

Steve used to blame his frail body for always failing him, but now that he's built like a fucking god and he's still failing people, he has to admit that it's not his body that's the failure, it's _him_.

* * *

Steve tries to remain positive. He doesn't let Bucky see how much he's hurting. He greets Bucky with a smile every morning—though he still can't meet his eyes—and asks how he feels.

"Fuck you," Bucky growls.

Steve drudges up a strained smirk and half-heartedly shoots back, "Maybe later."

Bucky snarls murderously and stomps away.

This, Steve reminds himself, is progress.

Progress is starting to feel like a punishment in itself.

* * *

"I hate you."

"You let me fall."

"You're pathetic."

"I hate you."

"I hate you."

"I hate you."

"I know."

* * *

Bucky takes to recounting every single death he was responsible for in excruciating detail. He's a running monologue of blood and gore and torture and death.

"It wasn't your fault, Buck. You have to know that it wasn't your fault."

Steve thinks for a split second that Bucky's going to hit him.

He kind of wishes he would.

But instead he just glares and moves on to the next murder.

Maybe this is a form of catharsis. Part of the healing process.

Surely, Steve thinks desperately, this is progress.

* * *

"Hey man, how are you? I haven't seen you in a while."

"I'm fine, Sam." Steve winces at how bad his voice sounds and hurries to cover it up. "I'm just really tired."

Sam's voice is concerned. "You sound it. When was the last time you got a good night's sleep?"

Steve laughs and it only comes out slightly forced. "I'll get back to you on that." He doesn't think Sam would like the honest answer—1944.

"You need to take a break man, just sleep for at least fourteen hours."

"Maybe tomorrow. I've got a lasagna in the oven, so best not take that nap right now."

Sam laughs but his voice quickly turns serious. "How's Bucky doing?"

Steve hesitates. "He's talking more." And because he knows Sam's next question, he hurries to continue. "He doesn't really like talking about the past," well, not the part of the past Steve wishes he'd talk about, "so I don't know how much he remembers, but . . . he's talking more."

"Hey, that's great," Sam says encouragingly.

"Yeah." Steve knows he should sound more enthusiastic, but can't quite manage it.

"Steve, this is really great. What's wrong?"

Steve hesitates again. "I just . . . wish there was more I could do."

"Listen to me, Steve. You are doing all you can. You are helping him more than you realize."

"I know," Steve sighs, not wanting to get into an argument.  
"He's gonna be okay."

"I know," Steve repeats, wishing it weren't a lie.

* * *

He doesn't really know why he doesn't tell Sam or the others about Bucky's behavior. Well, that's a lie. He does know.

He knows that if they knew what Bucky was saying, how he was acting, they would step in. They would take Bucky away from him. And Steve knows it's ridiculous, _knows_ this isn't healthy, but he doesn't care.

Everything Bucky says is true. (Sure, maybe the polite thing would be to keep it quiet anyway, but Steve figures Bucky's earned the right to skip polite.) Bucky's not telling Steve anything Steve hadn't already thought a thousand times, so does it really matter?

(He knows it does. He doesn't care.)

And at the end of the day, Steve admits to himself that having Bucky spitting out venom is preferable to not having Bucky at all.

(Steve knows how fucked up that is. He doesn't care.)

* * *

"I hate you," Bucky snarls.

"I love you," Steve wants to say.

"You're pathetic," Bucky hisses.

"I know," Steve sighs.

* * *

Steve lifts the gun to his temple. He's pretty sure even the serum can't fix a bullet through the brain.

"What the fuck are you doing?" growls a harsh voice. A metal hand comes out of nowhere and snatches the gun, which is disassembled in six seconds flat.

Steve stifles a groan and turns to the murderous assassin. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

Bucky's gaze flickers between Steve and the gun. "No," he says in a flat voice. "You can't kill yourself."

Steve lets out a bitter laugh. "Why not? You'd be better off if I did; you've made that clear. You wouldn't have to be around someone you hate, someone who let you fall." He laughs again, the sound grating and broken. "I let you fall. I didn't look for you. It's my fault you're . . ." he waves his hand at Bucky, hysteria creeping into his voice. "I'm _sorry_, okay? I am. I understand that you hate me, so why can't you just let me fucking kill myself?"

Bucky makes a frustrated noise and his eyes flash dangerously. "You're supposed to kill _me_, not you."

"_What?_" Steve chokes out, eyes wide.

Bucky just growls again, stalking to the window and tossing the gun out. He turns back to Steve and looks like he wants to strangle him. Steve half wishes he would, but that would probably defeat the purpose of throwing away the gun.

"No," Bucky says, more forcefully. "You _can't_ kill yourself."

Steve flops backwards on the bed in defeat. "Fine."

Bucky hesitates for a second, glaring distrustfully at Steve, then stalks back to the door. Without looking back, but in a softer voice than he's used in probably seventy years, he whispers, "I don't hate you."

Then he's gone.

Steve sighs. Well, it's a start.

It's progress.


End file.
